As Predictable As (A) Clockwork (Orange)
by ladybeavis
Summary: Three years after Alex is released from the Staja, he is still cracking at the old ultra-violence, but with three new droogs to replace his old ones. He is an idol to all teens and is loved by the government for his "reformation" and cooperation with the Ludovico Center. But when Alex accidentally murders an old friend, how far can he go before he is caught and severely punished?
1. An Ultra-Violent Idol

**Hello! This is a disclaimer, as I do not own Alexander the Large or any of the other characters featured in this fanfiction. This is just a work of fiction that respectfully used the characters owned by genius Anthony Burgess. These are his characters, not mine.**

**As for the setting, I am just going to assume **_**A Clockwork Orange **_**took place in London.**

**Len, Rick, and Bully appear in the 21st chapter of the book, so this takes place shortly after the end of that chapter. The entire fanfiction contains elements of the book and the movie. It's a mix.**

**Ultra-violentscenes are present, giving this fanfiction its T rating.**

**(And, I know this sounds cliché, but please, keep your comments civil if they're going to be negative. Nobody wants flames – and you are to expect flames if you are to write something and post it somewhere, (oh my brothers), so I won't completely reject negative reviews. If it is a comment that is just downright rude and uncivil, I will delete it. I would **_**love **_**to receive writing tips, should a comment be negative. Sorry for rambling, but really – if you're going to give a negative comment, I would appreciate it if you could be a droog and keep it civil. Thanks, and enjoy!)**

…

'What's it going to be, eh?'

Your Humble Narrator sat in my old spot where I used to shoot around with me original tree droogs, back in the extreme days of ultra-violence. And when I govreet the phrase "extreme days of ultra-violence", I like mean my own. Way back when, with Dim and Pete and Georgie-boy. At points in time, I found myself, Alexander DeLarge, self-nicknamed Alexander the Large, missing those bratchnies. But, I had just about fully processed through my thick gulliver that it was impossible to revisit the true nadsat years. It was chepooka to even waste my time to even remember those times, oh my brothers, because Georgie was snuffed, Pete with a zheena and taking life much more seriously, and Dim was a dreaded millicent. Whatever drove Dim to decide to join them stumped me, except for maybe the fact that he could mask the ultra-violent days with a millicent badge and a good reputation with law and order. Ever since our quarrel shortly after I was released from the Ludovico Center, every time the word 'dim' popped up in my mind I viddied bolshy, gloopy Dim towering over me, about twice my size, tolchocking me repeatedly in my litso. Never would I admit to anyone that I was somewhat poogly of old Dim, for that would affect my powerful appearance, you viddy?

I and my new droogs – Bully, Len, and Rick – still spoke the Nadsat slang although we were past that time. I had essentially replaced my original droogs with those three, even forcing them to wear the same garb as the vecks in my memory had, just so everything seemed the same. I wore my codpiece, suspenders, boots, hat, and eyelashes as I had before, sustaining my intimidating appearance as the boss.

I placed my legs up onto the creamy white-colored ptitsa footrests that were all around the Korova Milk Bar. We four were all sipping on chashas of moloko drencrom, myself plotting the next scheme of ultra-violence that would strike in London. According to my parents (which my em wept with a shaky goloss as she spoke, though my father did most of it), once I had been admitted into the Staja for the murdering of the cat-obsessed baboochka, many nadsat kids found interest in the perfection, bringing assault to merzsky deds and other people of the same kind, in an absurd kind of dress, fleeing at the first sight of the millicents. I had single-handedly, they claimed, began a tragic like following, making ultra-violence common in nadsats. I smecked as soon as they turned their backs, pleased with myself for making a bigger dent in the world other than being a guinea pig for a useless experiment.

'What's it going to be then, eh?' I repeated myself, glancing at my droogs who sat next to me. Apparently, they were focused on other things rather than listening to their leader. I was deciding who I was going to tolchock first when I was finally answered by Len.

'I say a poor old fellow whom we discover out in the outside, whose business is minded to himself,' he pitched, the two others nodding right right right in agreement. I had my mind on other things, however. I frowned and glanced over at Len with a cold stare, smecking as I viddied him swallow in nerves, fearful of displeasing Your Humble Narrator Alex.

'Oh, what a shame,' I said with such a goloss that I was being dead serious, but it appeared as if I was being sarky, 'I had plans of going devotchka-seeing. Perhaps spying one I liked.' Len's goober quivered – but not in a tearful way, in a way that told us droogs that he wanted to argue, but could find the right words to govreet – and I guffed loudly. It was decided then: we were going to search for a ptitsa we could rob, and maybe even lomtick up a little bit, if I was in the mood for the horrorshow ultra-violence. On the way out of the milk bar, I spotted a vulnerable malchick, way under the influence no doubt, and brought my swordstick onto his stomach. He sicked from the pressure onto his moloko-filled keeshka, and we laughed at him as he slowly crumpled out of his seat and onto the glittery floor of the Korova. Bully gripped his bleachy-blond hair of the back of his head and repeatedly slammed his gulliver on the footrests, the red red krovvy becoming more and more apparent with each blow, also staining the white of the rests. Eventually, after I had enough entertainment, I whistled twice, ordering Bully to stop. He threw the beaten and bruised veck onto the ground one last time, the boy slipping in his own sick and blood. We exited the bar and made way down the dark street, the outside having a blue tint to everything from the night.

Apparently, my droogs hadn't been too thrilled with the idea of targeting a ptitsa. 'Alex,' Rick began, walking on my left side next to Len. 'What if, we three, minus yourself, went off in search of a homeless person while you seek your devotchka? And if we find a good, vulnerable one, we'll send one of us off to find you so you can join?'

Honestly, brothers, I wasn't finding ultra-violence as horrorshow as I used to. I deeply wished for a zheena and a son, along with a quiet life much as Pete's was. It wasn't impossible, apparently, to completely switch gears and change the ultra-violent lifestyle. But I wasn't ready just yet; a few more acts and I might possibly be done with it all then.

I gave up with a groan. 'Fine, droogs.' Almost immediately, we came upon the alleyway that led to the Marina walkway. The tree of them halted and clumped in front of the alley's entrance.

'We'll split here,' said Len, 'I'll send Rick if we find anybody good.'

How cute; little Len was playing leader. No, he wasn't.

'Send Bully instead.' I stated with stern goloss. Len opened his mouth to speak, but gloopy Bully cut him short.

'Alright, Alex, I'll be the one to find you!' I smirked at Len, who was undoubtedly boiling inside, wanting to shive me and tolchock me and razrez me from limb to limb, because I absolutely would never allow him to order any of our droogs around. Only in his sneeties would he get to be the boss of our little group. Bully was a nazz anyway, and would only listen to Your Humble Narrator. Len nor Rick would ever convince him in a million years to do as they said.

'Will you be at the record shop?' Bully asked. I confirmed this and ordered them to go search for whomever they were looking to cause trouble with.

I watched in silence as malenky Len privodeeted Bully and Rick down the Marina, walking with such nadmenny that it made me want to sick. There were times where I could stand him; there were times where I couldn't. This was one of those times.

I wandered my way to the record shop in only a few minootas, the colorful store being overrun with music-loving nadsats like I had been years ago. I still was, but I was in my twenties, so I didn't fit in with the crowd as much. I never normally appeared in the disc shop wearing my ultra-violent clothes, but so many other ultra-violent kids shuffled around, whom I assumed were the leaders of their malenky groups as well, it didn't really matter. Should the millicents appear I could slip out through the back door while the beginners ran around like nazzes, trying to figure out how to escape the clutch of the law.

There were _devotchka _ultra-violence fans there as well, one sporting violet hair and knee-high boots of the same color, another with a green, tight-fitting plastic top, with the makeup of a glittery blue tear under her right eye. How could I tell that they were likened toward a bit of the old ultra-violence?

It was the cuffs, oh my brothers. Every single ptitsa and devotchka whose fingers skimmed the pop-discs wore eyeballs on their wrists, whether it be on their shirt or on a bracelet. That was an element that Your Humble Narrator had invented, and I was even wearing my own on the cuffs of my longsleeve that night. It was _the _heighth of ultra-violent fashion, used as a way to communicate between each other, apparently, as a way of telling each other who had the same interest as them.

I sighted a blonde-haired devotchka that wore green eyeballs on a neon-yellow, spiked bracelet and began to close in on her. I walked up next to her and pretended to have interests in the pop-discs that were in the bins that were in front of me. Lovely lovely Ludwig Van was playing rather loudly through the stereo, as I had requested that a disc be played not many minootas ago. Nonchalantly she looked over at the chelloveck that scanned through the discs, to see what he looked like out of curiosity, and had to look twice.

'Why, aren't you…?' The attractive ptitsa breathed, bringing her hand up to her rot. Her long fingernails were painted, a bright pink of the sorts. I gave her a smirk, lowering my head as if to darken the view of my left eye, bringing more light to the eye I wore two false eyelashes on. I had created a cult following, also, being the ideal icon of ultra-violence. I was their hero. The best part was, the chaplain and those at the Staja and those at the Ludovico Center couldn't throw me, 6655321, back into a cell, because it was my "old appearance" that nadsats of the modern age idolized. According to them, I had reformed, no longer ultra-violent thanks to the Ludovico Technique. They had no idea that I was still slithering around with my britva and steel-toed boots, shiving and kicking anybody who did me wrong to a pulp. The trick was, I never got caught. I was still goody-goody Alex that wanted to sick every time he raised his fist or heard Beethoven.

'Alexander… _DeLarge?_' The mesmerized one finally managed to spit out loudly, but not drawing the attention of any others.

I smecked. 'Yes, love. It is I, in the plott.'

Oh my brothers, this devotchka had my great interessovat. She was more gorgeous than any other I have seen before, and held great interest in Your Humble Narrator Alex as well. Her eyes were a deep brown, wide at the sight of myself. She was just about to open her mouth as a gruff but gloopy goloss echoed throughout the tiny store.

'Alex! We've found one, bratty! An old, creaky ded, weak and was near-death before we even started on him!' He let out his booming laugh and startled everybody else in the store. They spoke among themselves, startled, glancing around for the source of the goloss.

I cursed in my gulliver and govreeted to myself that I was going to pop Bully in the goober for interfering at the worst possible time, but I wanted to seem like a busy veck for this interesting devotchka.

I swapped feet that I was balanced on quickly and put my left rooker behind my back. I tipped my hat at the beautiful one. 'Till next time, o my little sister.' Ending it there before the surprised ptitsa could open her rot, I raced out of the shop with the greatest point of the Ninth playing as the background noise as I swiftly maneuvered between the thin spaces where bodies were standing in crowds around the disc bins, stealing the wallets of a few clueless nadsats who wore the eyeballs on the way out. If they were true ultra-violence fans, then they wouldn't mind their polly being taken by Alexander the Large.

I stumbled out of the shop, tripping over my own boots, regaining my balance next to Bully. I had to look up to see his face I was so close.

'Alex!' he horned, 'Let's go and drat that chelloveck before Len and Rick finish him off first.'

I knew that the idea of those two actually snuffing somebody without myself there to assist was complete cal, but I didn't have the heart to tell bolshy Bully that. But I still wanted to correct him. 'Chepooka, droog!' I guffed, beginning to sprint down the winding road that led to the Marina if you felt like running uphill long enough. I was already at the top for about a minoota before Bully appeared beside me, huffing with his hands on his knees. I raised my right eyebrow (creating the appearance that the eyelashes on my eye were quite longer and darker than they actually were), giving him a grin. 'A bit fagged, Bully?'

'Naw,' he lied.

I eagerly swung my swordstick beside me as Bully privodeeted to where Len and Rick were. Sure enough, as we wheeled around the corner to turn down onto the Marina walkway, the image of two vecks beating and kicking a helpless ded appeared, the man's red red krovvy visible from even where I was, some of the moonlight glinting off of the wet.

Once I had reached them I jabbed the end of the stick into the chelloveck's stomach, making him cough up a bit of the krovvy. I and me tree droogs smecked as we dragged this man closer and closer to his demise, his plott turning a dark shade of black-blue. He was platching in pain, spewing krovvy in several places, specifically his rot and nose. For a moment, the ded reminded him of himself when he was very first admitted into the Staja, being beat by the officials, my nose broken and my goober gushing krovvy. I smirked evilly as I continued to whack this man with the swordstick, releasing some of my anger towards those Staja officials with each hit. It was just me delivering blows to this veck for several minootas, the others stepping back once viddying that I was taking over. I was having a rather horrorshow time, too, so my droogs were lucky they let me have the man, or else I was going to have to drat _them _once in a safe place from the millicents.

The ded was nicely dressed, too, so it wasn't any homeless person that Len had targeted (and to no surprise that it wasn't either, Len was such a nazz that he probably started to drat the first man he saw). The veck finally opened his eyes and looked up at me in complete and utter fear, his rot quivering.

'Alexander?' He weakly sputtered, the red red krovvy gushing out of his mouth in great amounts with each time his jaw flexed. Once I heard his goloss, I instantly knew who he was, and my body was flooded with remorse and fear.

The Inferior. The Inferior was the one whom I was delivering rough blows to with my swordstick, illuminated by the moon and the light that glinted off of the water. Len had targeted the Inferior because he was the first one he saw, and ordered Bully to go off and retrieve me. And I, a huge, gloopy nazz, had just joined in without viddying who the veck was before I began to tolchock him.

My legs and rookers shook terribly. Other than my pee and em, and Pete, I suppose, the Inferior was the only person I could truly be around more than a few minootas before wanting to tolchock him in his litso.

The goloss deep in my rasoodock told me not to fret about being caught, since so many malchicks and devotchkas were interested in ultra-violence that it would be impossible to directly point an accusing finger at Your Humble Narrator. They had no proof.

I wanted to spare him so badly. But, no matter how much I wanted to, brothers, I couldn't. I wouldn't want to weight the Inferior with the burden of having to govreet Brodsky and Branom that the Ludovico Technique wasn't effective. Not only that, but then the millicents would be after me and I'd be stuck in the Staja for a good fourteen years, solidified this time. I had to snuff him. I stood staring at him for a minoota, poogly, my swordstick holding me up.

Finally, Len opened his rot. 'Alex, what are you doing? Finish him off.'

I knew I had to. And then, feeling as if I might begin boohoohooing, I struck my swordstick down onto the gulliver of the poor poor Inferior, instantaneously lulling him into eternal sleep.

…


	2. Claiming Dominance

My beautiful swordstick was now stained with the red red krovvy, and that was unfortunate because that was proof that I had just committed a crime, brothers.

After I had snuffed the Inferior (and stood in shock for what seemed like many minootas), Len decided to open his bratchny rot about how I wasn't acting the same, and how he should lead the four of us and he just really got on my nerves. Your Humble Narrator Alex was in a like state of mourning, you viddy, and I didn't want to be bothered. I was bolnoy and begging Bog for forgiveness, though he never would, especially with what I had done as a nadsat. But, in my strange state I was currently in, I decided that the tree of them would not know that I knew this chelloveck, whose cold body the red red krovvy still flowed from several wounds. Instead of collapsing under guilt, I sighed, and whirled around on the heels of my boots. Len cut his goloss short, stepping back an inch, strack visible in his glazzies. I approached him slowly, my head tipped forward so I could darken the area around my eyes (I loved my eyes, the bluest of the blue, the most horrorshow glazzies a veck could have asked for). He pressed up against the white brick wall of a shop along the Marina and held his rot open, gulping in air, poogly of what I was going to do. I grit my zoobies, pinning Len up by his shiyah.

'Quiet down, nazz,' I growled quietly, angrily tapping my swordstick on the near-frozen Marina walkway with my free hand. 'If you're too gromky about the words you govreet, a baboochka may overhear and contact the millicents, understand?' Len gasped and gasped for air, as I was pressurizing his windpipe with the death grip, oh my brothers. He let out noises of struggle and drat, nodding furiously with his glazzies as if they were going to pop right out of his gulliver and dangle there right in front of me. Bully and Rick just viddied the whole thing, most likely too cowardly to interfere with the icon of ultra-violence.

I smecked evilly at pretty boy Len's struggle and uncapped my britva from my swordstick, letting the remaining part against the wall where I had him pinned. I adjusted the handle in my iron grip so that it was comfortable, and cast a glazzy onto Lenny to see his reaction. Horrorshow, it was. He had not the slightest clue as to what I was going to do with the blade (but I absolutely knew so many things to, droogs, that he had seen me use it before and no time has the same technique been used twice).

I forced my hand into his mouth and strongly squeezed his yahzick, razrezzing it out of his rot. He yelped, extremely poogly of what I was doing, begging for forgiveness through his rotting zoobies. It just came out as chepooka, however, since it was no use trying to use language when you didn't have your yahzick in your mouth to assist you.

I held my britva up to the side of his tongue, guffing with satisfaction. How horrorshow! I was actually managing to strike strack into the chest cavity of Len, whom had decided that he wouldn't struggle any more in fear that he would make the wrong move and accidentally bring himself into my gorgeous britva. 'Or maybe,' I tilted my head to the side slowly, smirking, widening my glazzies for effect, 'since you don't seem to understand what it means to _silence, _I'll take your yahzick so you can never govreet again.'

'Please, please, bratty,' Len pleaded, his warm, wet yahzick swelling and shrinking in my hand as he govreeted, 'Don't take my yahzick. Appy polly loggies, dear droog. I'll quiet, I promise.'

I grunted cal under my breath before releasing my grip on his shiyah, crumpling his body on the stone Marina walkway. Even in the dim provided light of the luna I could viddy purple bruises beginning to appear on his neck from where I had skvatted him. As I reattached my precious britva to my swordstick, I could hear him below me breathe in heavily. I scowled at him and fixed my shlapa, which was beginning to fall off of my gulliver from when I had it tipped to the side. 'Grow up, bratchny.' I said, turning around to face Bully and Rick again.

To my surprise, the Inferior's body was gone. I had turned to them just at the right moment to viddy Bully push the chelloveck into the Marina. He had the Inferior's ankles weighted with two large shlakobloks to keep him at the bottom of the water. Rick was scooping the liquids up onto the stone to rid of the krovvy. It was almost completely gone.

'Well done, droogs, perhaps I underestimate you dva at times.' I said, shifting my weight over to my swordstick and balanced it next to me, one rooker on my hip. Bully walked up away from the edge of the edge of the walkway and Rick got off of his knees, both standing next to each other. They nodded yes yes yes, thank you thank you thank you in unison, undoubtedly feeling awfully horrorshow about themselves, having pleased their mighty and wonderful Alex. But, I saw their smiles fade and their glazzies shift over to groaning Len behind Your Humble Narrator, strack glinting off of their irises. Or maybe, perhaps, that was just the light of the moon, which was getting even brighter as I govreeted to them.

Once Lenny had managed to stand up on his boots (with some assistance from Rick), I privodeeted them back down towards the Korova Milk Bar under the assumption that they still thirsted for more moloko, only maybe moloko vellocet this time around. I myself, would not be joining them. With every step I took I felt as if I was going to sick everywhere with guilt.

'Will you be joining us, Alex?' Bully asked.

'No,' I said, yawning a bit. 'I want to wander back home to the inside and have a chasha of chai.' My rasoodock was on the Inferior, who was now snuffed at the bottom of a watery grave, the poor ded's body beginning to swell below the starry city of London. I pondered over how long it would take for those at the Ludovico and Staja to notice the veck was missing.

'Why so, if you don't care if I ask?' Rick opened his rot for about the second time that whole day. I could slooshy the strack in his goloss. He and Len were close droogs, whereas I had Pete (I suppose you could govreet). Poor Bully had nobody, and at points in time I felt sorrow for the poor veck, but I remembered how gloopy he was. He was also very ignorant to his surroundings, which was not too horrorshow for the rest of us at times. It would make sense that Lenny-boy's fear would rub off on Rick, the orange finding himself fearing Humble Alex more than he would've fancied.

'Because, you merzsky malchick, I have control over myself and no longer want to stumble around, pyahnitsa, in the Korova this night!' I snapped, whacking my swordstick off the ground so hard it bounced back up a little. I let out a sigh. 'Besides, I need to gather spatchka for once. I'm constantly fagged and I'm fagged of being fagged.' Before giving any more reasons to my droogs to open their rots, I swaggered in the direction of my apartment, leaving them in my dust.

I heard Len call out, 'Oh, but Alex, wouldn't leaving mean that somebody else would have to take up position as boss?'

My nogas stopped by themselves and wouldn't let me go further. Oh my brothers, it was almost as if Your Humble Narrator hadn't beaten the cal out of Lenny only a few minootas before. I spun around slowly, tipped my shlapa to the bratchny, and promptly told him, 'Kiss my sharries, you sodding nazz.'

I didn't let myself halt until I was in the shelter of my apartment, jiggling the key in its lock. I was too strack that I would tolchock some innocent chelloveck or ptitsa in my anger. Len was just like the only thing that could make me as furious as a bull that sighted red.

My previous sentence has been a lie, my dear droogs. The thing that infuriates me the most is the improper use of lovely lovely Ludwig Van.

...


	3. A Solid Plan Over Chai

Oh, my dear droogs. For Alexander the Large to weep was a very rare thing to viddy, and I made certain that nobody ever did viddy it.

Once I had successfully made my way into my apartment, I calmly floated up the stairs into the bathroom, and boohoohooed myself into oblivion.

Oh my brothers, what had I done? I had offed the chelloveck who was mostly responsible for setting me free from the Staja to the Ludovico, then finally back out into starry London. If it weren't for him, I'd still be shooting around in my cell with those perverted bratchnies who'd hit on you one minoota then nark you out to the guards over something gloopy. It was the Inferior who gave away all his hope to a young, (ultra) violent malchick, putting all his trust in Your Humble Narrator that I would reform as a corrected veck and be baddiwad no longer.

A nazz, that Inferior was. He should have just abandoned me behind at the Staja to leave me for fourteen. It would've saved his life (but I govreet with just a hint of doubt, droogs, for my followers would have taken the streets anyway and there is a good chance that the ded could've been a victim.) I wept a while but not very gromky so I wouldn't wake my pee and em.

After I spent time hiding away and platching, I goolied to the kitchen and prepared myself a cup of chai along with a small portion of kleb.

Melancholy over the Inferior filled me no longer. Instead, it was thought. If it was any old moodge I had oobivatted, the dates when he was discovered to be gone would vary. But since this was a government official I had beaten bloody with my swordstick, I gave myself odin or dva days till my crime was revealed. _But, _praise Bog, ultra-violence is common, as you've slooshied me ramble on about many times, and there were plenty of nadsats stirring trouble. They couldn't prove I murdered the veck but they could make me a prime suspect.

I brought my chasha up to my lips and drank a little more chai. It was horrorshow. Chai had a tendency to lift me out of bad spirits, no matter what the reason should be that I was upset.

Shudders were brought onto me when the thought of the Inferior's dook following me crossed my rasoodock. I tried to shake it away, but the thought just constricted itself around my middle and squeezed tightly, much like my new snake. Little old Alex, blending in with a group of lewdies while walking down the Flatblock Marina, when suddenly I have a feeling of being strangled, falling to my knees and clawing at my shiyah frantic like, eventually running out of breath and snuffing it right there on the walkway. Then, I would lay there, the lewdies stepping all over my cold body as they continued with their lives, paying no mind to me. Right before I'd snuff it, the Inferior would appear right before me, shaking his gulliver at me. He would've been the one to have dawn this tragic, tragic death onto me, somehow.

Then, oh my brothers, I would be all oddy-knocky, as I would be until the end of time.

While I was pondering over what my future would be like, I realized I had eaten every last bit of kleb and drank every last drop of chai. Being an obedient malchick (although I was no longer a nadsat and didn't have to help my pee and em, I felt I had to make up for quite a lot), I placed my chasha in the sink and padded off to my bedroom.

After I had left the hospital from my attempt at snuffing it, my parents felt so oozhassny about what they had done that they booted that leech Joe out of our apartment. He was to find someplace else to live in the time that their dear son that they suddenly messeled was the best molodoy malchick on Earth was out of his full-body cast. If he wasn't able to find shelter, well too bad for him, because he'd be sleeping under Albert Bridge with the rest of the merzsky homeless men.

It was razdrezzing to think that all of my precious possessions were in the clutches of that baboochka's family, all of my gorgeous Beethoven discs and other things like such, probably never to even be used. In fact, it wouldn't have surprised me if my lovely lovely Ludwig Van wasn't even _in _the possession of that soomka's relatives. They were most likely in circulation between many lewdies, sold for higher polly each time. For all of my things that were taken from my hands I had to make up for. I had tried my best to possess a replica of my old quilt (impossible, I realized, it was specially made for Your Humble Narrator), tried to locate the site where my giant Ludwig Van wall scroll was so I could purchase it back from whomever the veck was that owned it (I had found it, but it was a refusing devotchka that 'rightfully' owned it and would not sell it, even for _a very _handsome amount of pretty polly). But the thing I missed most was my beautiful snake, who supposedly was oobivatted in an accident. I can't fathom what kind of an accident she could've snuffed it in, oh my brothers, but she supposedly had. My gorgeous python.

My em had fussily came into my room one nochy while I was listening to my discs and practically threw a snake on me that she and my father had purchased that day. She shivered and rubbed her rookers as if the python had made her cold. Apparently, they didn't enjoy that I didn't have a pet anymore, and decided that they could replace my snuffed one. This new snake wasn't as charming as my previous one (I was very attached to my starry snake, I had her since the fifth grade), but she was a snake, and I admired snakes greatly.

I flicked on the lights in my room and went over to my bedside table, opening the bottom drawer. There she was, the choodessny thing, shedding her skin. I decided it would be best to leave her alone and stripped my eyelashes off, sticking them on my new mirror like I always had. Eventually, I was only in my neezhnies and crawled into my bed.

I was too fagged to even consider a shower, droogs. My rasoodock was overloaded with the memories of that nochy, and I was constantly reminding myself that I couldn't alter my behavior in the morning, and that nothing ever happened. Then, when the moonlight begins to glow on the stones of the Flatblock Marina, I would meet my droogs in my apartment lobby and we would continue with our average routine. As far as _I _was concerned, brothers, I hadn't seen the Inferior since I was admitted out of that hospital.

My plan to act completely normal was still in my gulliver as I nodded off, but it was mostly filled with the thoughts of the blonde-haired ptitsa I had met earlier that evening, with her tight-fitting top and green eyeball bracelets.

…

**More to come! The next chapter will take a few days, since I want it to be a little longer. The past two have been short, and I don't like that. It makes me feel like I'm just la-ti-da-ing each chapter. Anyways, thanks for reading this far and expect a new chapter in a few suns and moons.**


	4. An Unexpected Surprise

My em had to wake me up the next morn, because I would've slept the day away otherwise. Though I render her help useless, because I had 'a rather large pain in the head that could quite possibly wear off with a few more hours of rest'. The gloopy cheena believed me and let me be until she left for work.

Once I was absolutely certain that my parents no longer were downstairs (since I didn't hear them chumbling among themselves anymore) I emerged from my room and slithered into the kitchen. I prepared myself toasted kleb with jammiwam and sat at the table, skimming through the day's edition of the gazetta.

My rasoodock was fretting over whether the dear old Inferior's water-swollen litso was going to appear somewhere throughout, but I tried not to worry my fagged gulliver over it much. I had to act as if I hadn't just oobivatted a like friend only a mere nine hours ago, ittying on with my day as if a normal person would.

See, my brothers, I suppose you could govreet that I was a bit of a con artist. I had an awfully horrorshow acting talent and didn't snap in dva under pressure. I could lie straight to millicents' litsos and do it while grinning. Back in my great days of extreme ultra-violence, I didn't have to deal with millicents. My droogs and I were always able to flee real skorry at the first shoom of the sirens. _They _were always able, but not I. No, brothers, not even Alexander the Large could escape the hold of the millicents at one time. But it wasn't because of my own doing. It was because of sodding Dim, smashing a bottle of moloko onto my gulliver real oomny, the glass razrezzing and shiving into my right glazzy. While I was horning in pain, he, Georgie-boy, and Pete fled, leaving me to be dragged away, thrown into the Staja. I despised Dim. I had no idea how I even could've considered him a droog of mine. Same went with Len. Oh my brothers, with Len and Dim constantly eating and eating and eating at me and testing me it just made me turn shades of red with fury, and truly brought out the ultra-violent side of myself, wanting to turn to my beauteous cut-throat britva and do just that to the both of them…

My thoughts were cut short when I looked down at my hand. White-knuckled, I was, with the jellied toast crushed in my fist, globs of jammiwam all through my fingers and dripping all over my hand.

I grunted, disgusted that other moodges could actually bring me to my boiling point, and dropped my toasted kleb to the glass plate. My nogas felt oddly heavy as I went over to the sink to clean off my hands and rinse off the fine China. While osooshing my calloused hands, I happened to glance out the window and viddy a few nadsats whispering among themselves on the fire escape. I rolled down my sleeves and went closer to the window to perhaps get a closer look.

Tree malchicks, one devotchka – as I had created the idea that acts of ultra-violence were best committed in a gruppa of four. They were chumbling, viddying a polyclef the molodoy cheena had in her grasp, and comparing it to the lock of my pee and em's apartment that was a mere few meters away.

It struck upon Your Humble Narrator that the nadsats were going to force themselves into my home. I could just von the smoke of a cancer that one of the malchicks was smoking, the scent enough to make me sick. I can't stand the von of cancer smoke; never could, and I don't know why.

Such nazzes, these nadsats were! Didn't they know you were supposed to perform ultra-violence at nochy in the moonlight?

There wasn't much time until the four skittish and hell-raising nadsats would be in the same area as I. Running real skorry up to my room, I just about tripped over my precious snake, who was slithering around in the hallway for some reason, and snatched up my swordstick. I could slooshy the sound of the polyclef working itself into the fire escape lock and the mad, insane smecking of the four of them. I stuck the eyelashes to my right glazzy and put on my shlapa and leapt out and stood at the top of the stairs, still in my neezhnies, waiting for the sorry ones to meet their very furious idol.

The loud creaking of the rusty hinges echoed throughout my apartment, accompanied by the excited whispering of nadsats.

'Viddy if they're sleeping,' said the devotchka.

'Why can't you go up? I'll stay down here and raid the cupboards and cabinets.' replied the voice of one of the malchicks. I slooshied the sound of rather nasty hocking in the same tone of goloss, so I assumed that this was the one sucking on a cancer.

'You nazz! When I give you orders, you follow them. Now, go up with George and Squid and beat the old ded and cheena to a bloody pulp.' This devotchka was rather bossy. Not only was it her goloss that infuriated me, but it was what she was govreeting. The old people she was trying to oobivat were my parents! Nobody would lay a finger on my parents before I was six feet underground.

The sound of heavy-heeled boots stomped across the living room tile and even closer to the stairs. I was suddenly flooded with excitement. Although I looked like a veck who was just about to set off for his morning job at the strip club, I was going to perform ultra-violence _during the day! _The best part was, I couldn't be penalized, since I would technically be acting in self-defense.

It seemed like several minootas before the litsos of the tree malchicks appeared at the bottom of the steps. Priceless, it was, to see their expressions when they saw whose house they had broken into.

'Morning, droogs,' I began, descending down the stairs in a like hop, only one noga touching each stair. The malchicks backed up skorry, running into each other with nervous uhhhhhhs and ummmms. I grinned and tapped the end of my swordstick on the tile, goolying toward them real slow, making sure that the nadsats were real spoogy of me. Eventually, I had trapped the tree of them in a corner of my kitchen, their shoulders shrunken and their litsos pale. I could slooshy the devotchka gasp gromky behind me.

I uncapped my cut-throat britva with no words, and the smallest malchick, a blond with the longest eyelashes I have ever seen (that weren't my artificial ones of course) of the same color, began to crark into tears. He tightly gripped the tallest veck's arm, probably his bratty, a brunet with a long face. He and the other malchick, who appeared to be Asian and of no relation to the other two, were stricken with strack. They breathed heavily and looked up at me, undoubtedly sensing death.

But, oh my brothers, I was only going to have a little fun with them.

I moved the nozh around in my palm, as if viddying and examining it. 'What is this talk of snuffing a ded and baboochka that you speak?' The blond howled louder and shoved his face in the crook of his bratty's right rooker. The brunet was also the one with the cancer, as at that moment, it fell out of his rot as if on cue. His glazzies were locked on me the whole time. That made me smeck, but I did so evilly to frighten the nadsats even more. I did this gromky and then abruptly stopped, shoving my litso closely to the brunet's.

'When I govreet to you, I expect you to answer, pony?' I creeched, lifting up my britva and holding it behind me, the tip facing the malchick's forehead. He swallowed hard and opened his rot.

'Ah, um, we were almost positive two old people lived here, and we were… ah—'

'Spot on, droogie! There _is _a starry couple that resides here!' I interrupted purposely, lowering my rooker and smiling, placing my hands on my hips. I also gave the tree vecks some space, the muscles of the two eldest loosening. The blond, however, continued to wail and blubber into his bratty's rooker.

I made them feel safer on purpose. I stamped my right noga forward, which was bare, and grabbed the brunet by his black collar, pinning him against the wall. The blond horned in strack, revealing his litso.

'But,' I said, taking my nozh and putting the tip by his forehead again, only this time, I lightly pressed it into the middle, the red red krovvy beginning to sputter out of the new wound. 'Those people are my parents.' The brunet gasped for air like Len had the night earlier when I put him in his place, his litso turning a bright shade of red in struggle. His squinty glazzies were wide open.

'No, no, please!' The blond boy horned, reaching up and gripping my left rooker, which was the one I had clasped onto his bratty's shiyah. He dug his nails into my wrist, skriking as hard as he could, creeching, spoogy. I could feel the infection seep into my bloodstream from all of the dirt that was caked under the nadsat's fingernails, and my red red krovvy flowed all over my arm real skorry. With no choice, I dropped the brunet and faced the blond, furious.

'Who are _you _to stop me?' I barked, skorry wrapping my hands around his shiyah instead of his bratty's, beginning to shake him roughly.

The violence was thrilling me so much, brothers, I cannot even express. As the Asian boy bolted and flung himself out and down the fire escape, the devotchka stood and viddied in strack, the blond horned and crarked, and the brunet tried his best to return oxygen to his lungs, I decided that I could greaten the violence and make it ultra.

I dropped the blond, but only partially, and grabbed him by his voloss. He crarked bloody murder, tears spilling all over his litso and his black collared shirt (a rip-off of Your Humble Narrator's longsleeve, no doubt). Gripping my swordstick with white knuckles I raised it above my head, cracking down on the malchick's gulliver. A smirk washed across me as the blond grew quieter with each blow, the red red krovvy becoming easier and easier to viddy through his light-colored curls. The brunet was passed out at my nogas from inhaling and exhaling too skorry. The devotchka, however – who was actually pretty attractive, I noted just then, with short white shorts overtop black tights – whipped out a bolshy nozh and pointed it towards me from over by the couch.

'Stop it! Right now!' she squeaked, drawing nearer, 'I'll stab you before you can even react!' In the heat of the moment she had lost her thick nadsat yahzick. She was dressed as a feminized version of myself, with longer fake eyelashes on her right eye, a bow wrapped around her shlapa, and a tightfitting longsleeve. Oh, how the molodoy devotchkas idolized Alex the Large. I was their savior. And yet, here this one was, trying to break into her savior's home. Tsk tsk, what a nazz.

I let the blond crumple next to his bratty, the both of them flowing krovvy from several places, their glazzy-lids closed relaxingly. I turned to the parody of myself and smirked, swinging up my swordstick so the end of it was resting in my left palm and I had it gripped in my right. 'Darling, please,' I uncapped my cut-throat britva, 'your nozh may be bolshy, but it's no match for my precious britva.' I ran the blade through my now-free left palm, a thin, neat cut forming, red red krovvy spilling. I could sense the cheena tense up, fearful but courageous noises escaping her tightly closed goobers.

Knockoff Alex shook like a small animal, waving her nozh in the air like it was a flag. She was making me nervous, admittedly. 'I-I won't have to use this if you just give me Georgie and Cam!'

I'm pretty sure I flinched when I slooshied the name 'Georgie'. One of those two bratties shared the same name as my snuffed droog, oobivatted in a robbery attempt. Oh my brothers, good ol' Georgie-boy was my favorite out of my three old droogs. I enjoyed messing around with him more than I enjoyed messing with Dim or Pete—I lied, appy polly loggies. I found the most fun in messing with Dim, but that was beside the point. I never got to bid my farewell to Georgie-boy, and I felt incomplete ever since I heard the news.

Snapping back to reality, I kept my cool in front of this devotchka, although it was near impossible because I was wearing my eyelashes and shlapa but was in my neezhnies. Luckily, though, the cheena was too focused on whether I was going to snuff her or not, so I was being taken seriously.

I clicked my yahzick on the roof of my mouth and shook my gulliver with a fake apologetic expression. 'Sorry, love, but no one breaks into my dear pee and em's house without paying their dues.' I tapped the empty longer 3/4ths of my swordstick on the ground in second intervals, smecking at the now-crying devotchka. She still flailed her rooker around that gripped her nozh. This made me furious; had she any idea how to use that thing?

'Stop swinging that around like an animal, you sodding cheena! Have you any idea how to gracefully wield a knife?!'

She stopped, glancing up at me as if I had just told her she was on the death row, then took it back seconds later. This continued for about a minoota – just some awkward staring – before she unexpectedly charged at me with her nozh. I yawned, grabbing hold of her rooker and wrestling her to the ground with just my right side. When she was at my nogas, I stamped on her back with my bare foot. She wheezed afterward, curled in a ball, real spoogy.

This whole thing was horrorshow, but I felt as if I was letting them win. I wasn't acting like I did at nochy, I was acting more… soft. But then again, I was a totally different person under the light of the luna than I was under the sun.

I knelt down next to the platching devotchka, obviously a beginner to ultra-violence. I lifted her gulliver up so I could look her in the litso by her hair, somewhat fagged. 'Listen, idiot,' I said, 'If you just drag… whatever those two boys are to you out of this apartment by the fire escape right now, I'll let you go without hurting you. Okay?' The nadsat nodded, sniffly, the noise of mucus in her sinuses gurgling each time she breathed in. I helped her up, as I was always a tiny bit politer to cheenas and devotchkas, and walked over to the door. I opened it with a swift action of my rooker as the mini-weepy-Alex dragged the two sleeping vecks from my kitchen and out the door. As she passed me, she looked up at me, with my clenched zoobies through closed goobers, and frowned.

'Apologies for all the trouble, droog.' She practically choked out the last word, as if asking me if it was okay to use. I just stared at her, not accepting or rejecting, until she walked out.

I roughly slammed the door, still somewhat in confusion as in what just sloochatted. What I was most angered about was not that droog-wannabe nadsats were going to oobivat my pee and em, but that I, Alex DeLarge, king of ultra-violence, had let them slip through my fingers. I should've snuffed them right then and there, hiding their bodies in the ducts until given the opportunity to take them out at nochy and weight them in the Marina. But I didn't, and I despised myself for it.

My fists were clenched tightly and so were my zoobies, as I was ready to burst, my ultra-violent side wanting to appear and cause hell, but I felt a heavy feeling on my right foot. Glancing down, I saw my python slithering across me with her sladky, thick body under the table. It was then when I realized I was _still _in my neezhnies. I suppose I was so peeved over the nadsats, platties weren't even on my rasoodock (oh my brothers, as I was standing at the tippy-tops of my stairs in wait, I most definitely had time to change into my pants, longsleeve, codpiece and whatnot).

With a swift movement of the rooker, I gripped my python's stomach from the kitchen table she was hiding under and slung her over my shoulder, with her slithering back and forth in content, her scaly and smooth body feeling cold against my bare plott. I stepped into my room, tossing her on the floor with a rather gromky thump. She lay stiff in shock for a split second before flicking her thin yahzick as she always did, gliding quietly under my bed. She was not as elegant and loveable as my dear, poor old Basil was, but she passed.

I opened up my closet and extracted my favorite blue suit and tie (the one I had worn upon entry into the Staja). My choodessny eyelashes and shlapa were taken off and put in their respectable places, but only until the nochy came, for that was when I would swap litsos and stroll down the Flatblock Marina with my trusty swordstick, tolchocking and dratting the first poor veck that happened to unfortunately cross paths with me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Bully, Rick, and Len. Spite of our differences we made a quite horrorshow banda, I must admit, cleverly escaping the millicents with tactics that Your Humble Narrator had thought of with my amazing mozg.

I fuddled with my tie, as I was never too sure as to how to knot it, but finally got it in such a way that I was pleased with. Turning on my heel and scooping my eemya-less snake up to return her to the drawer, I bouncingly went downstairs, preparing to go out for a walk. I was already standing in the hallway, swinging the door closed, when I suddenly stuffed my loafer in the way. The wood crushed my noga, but the pain only lasted a short minoota. A glint of silver shone on my pee and em's plush carpet where the ptitsa had been standing not long ago. I went back inside, my keys still in the door, and pocketed the polyclef that the nadsats had dropped in strack.

That could very well come into use later.

…

**Oh my Bog, it seems like so long since I last published a chapter! Sorry to keep you waiting, if you were anticipating this. The middle of the chapter uses less Nadsat, but that's because it was written when I didn't have internet- which meant no access to a Nadsat dictionary. I had to use what words I did know and just hoped Little Alex stayed in character. I had to have him point out that he wasn't acting normal as a sign that showed that I was aware of it. It shouldn't happen again!**

**I'm not sure when the next chapter will be published. I'll try to make my deadline Saturday at the most.**


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